


all hail the algorithm

by silvyri



Series: The Old Guard Kinkmeme Fills [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Assumptions, Boys Please Just Communicate, Can I Make It Any Clearer?, Falling In Love After Marriage, Getting Married Through A Website, Insecure Nicky, Joe Thinks Nicky Is Still A Priest, Kinda Mail Order Groom, M/M, Married Roommates, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Modern Arranged Marriage AU, Nicky Has Some Serious Self Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, The Old Guard Kinkmeme, and is very confused, kind of crack, kinkmeme fill, nicky cooks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26662336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvyri/pseuds/silvyri
Summary: Joe signs up for a website that will match him to his perfect spouse. He's tired of being the only single person in his circle of friends, and tired of his disastrous dating life. Too bad that the apparently perfect algorithm screws up and sends him a Catholic priest instead. Don't they think being gay is asin?Nicky signs up for a website that will match him to his perfect spouse. Since leaving the church he's been terribly lonely, and uses the website as a last resort. The algorithm matches him with the man of his dreams, but when he arrives on Joe's doorstep it becomes apparent that Joe doesn't want him. Nicky understands, however. Why would a man so perfect as Joe want someone like him?(Posting from The Old Guard Kinkmeme.)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: The Old Guard Kinkmeme Fills [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938385
Comments: 306
Kudos: 715





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting the already posted parts on the kinkmeme on ao3 so I can start posting the new parts here instead. :) (Posting multiple parts on the kinkmeme is giving me anxiety since I can't edit them haha)
> 
> Filling this amazing prompt here: https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2726.html?thread=695206#cmt695206
> 
> _Joe is tired of dating, he signs up for one those modern arranged marriage services that do all the work for you, sign the paperwork, your spouse will be there within a week. However, to his utter shock, The Algorithm sets him up with a Catholic Italian male? ?? ???????? ? The website refuses to change it or give him a refund, The Algorithm is never wrong, they have to at least try for [period of time] before they’ll take Nicolò back._
> 
> _Nicolò understands Joe’s disappointment but promises to be so good for him as long as they live together, and be the best spouse ever and do all the cooking and cleaning so Joe can concentrate on his Art 🖼 He’ll just sit here in a corner. Don’t mind him._
> 
> _Of course they fall in love. The Algorithm is never wrong. All hail The Algorithm!_
> 
> _\+ Nicky angst where he just wants to have someone even if that means loveless marriage because he doesn’t feel he deserves love? For reasons? And joe rejecting him HURTS but he GETS it?_

“What the fuck,” is what Joe first says when he sees the webpage load.

 _Congratulations on your marriage!_ It reads in big, cursive red letters. A gif of champagne popping and flower petals falling plays below it. 

_Your beloved’s name is:_

_Nicolò di Genova_

_Gender: Male_

_Age: 30_

_Place of Birth: Genoa, Italy_

“There’s no fucking way,” Joe whispers to himself as he scrolls down the page of information on his match. His eyes stick on _Religion: Catholic,_ and then _Occupation: priest_ and bug out. “What the fuck,” he says again, with feeling, _“what the fuck?”_

At the bottom of the page is a profile picture of a man. Pale skin, dark hair, dressed in black clothing with a white clerical collar at his throat. A small, morose smile lingers on his mouth. He’s nothing like what Joe was picturing when he’d filled out his preferences; fit, tanned, preferably long haired with a pretty smile. Gender doesn’t matter to Joe, and not really looks, either, but this isn’t—this isn’t what he was expecting at _all._ Least of all _Catholic?_ Sure, Joe wouldn’t say he’s exactly a practising Muslim, but he still eats halal and attends the local mosque with his family from time to time. And sure, Catholics and Muslims can absolutely marry, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Just, _a Catholic priest?_ Didn’t they think homosexuality was a _sin?_

Still reeling, he gets up from his desk and does a round of his studio. Sits back down, refreshes the page, and groans when he sees the exact same information display. 

He picks up his phone and punches in the number for the helpline. It rings as he rests it against his ear, and he refreshes the page again while he waits, just in case.

The phone picks up. _“Welcome to Soulmatch! My name is Nina, how may I help you?”_

“There has to have been some kind of mistake,” he says quickly. 

_“I’m sorry?”_

Joe winces. “Sorry, my name is Joe al-Kaysani. I paid for a marriage match on the website? But there’s been some kind of mistake. I’ve been matched with the wrong person.”

Nina laughs. _“The Algorithm does not make mistakes, Mr al-Kaysani.”_

“Well, it did this time,” Joe says, staring at the profile pic of the bloody _Catholic priest_ he’s been matched with. “He’s a Catholic priest! They think being gay is a sin! We can’t be married!”

 _“Everything will work out, Mr al-Kaysani,”_ Nina reassures, sounding very indulgent. _“Trust in The Algorithm. The Algorithm is never wrong. All hail The Algorithm.”_

Joe hangs up, disgusted. 

~~~

It says, right in the contract he signed when he paid for this cursed website, that there are no refunds, no take-backs, no second matches if you aren’t happy with the first. Joe’s _stuck_ with this Nicolò di Genova from Genoa, Italy, when he arrives a week later. He rings the helpline again, gets basically the same thing that he got from that Nina lady, scrolls through every page of the website and only finds one thing in the tiniest text at the bottom of a page Joe isn’t even sure how he got to: if you are truly unhappy after one year of living together, you are able to file for a divorce through the site, and you will be refunded your money in full. 

_One year,_ Joe thinks, staring up at his bedroom ceiling, unable to sleep. _One, full, year married to this guy._ Allah, why did he ever think this was a good idea?

 _Damn you, Aunt Zara, for telling me the website works,_ he thinks, angrily rolling over onto his side. _Damn you, shitty, sad, dating life. Damn you, all my happily in love friends. And damn you, Nicolò di Genova, for signing up for that hellish website as well._

He punches his pillow a couple of times and slams his head back down on it. He gets to sleep at around four am, and wakes just as, if more, grumpy.

~~~

By the end of the week, his anger at the unfairness of it all has faded into some sort of ashamed resignation. He knew what he was signing up for at the start. It’s his fault that he’s in this mess in the first place. He’s just going to have to suck it up, tell Nicolò di Genova when he arrives that he’s sorry, but they’re going to have to wait the year out to get a divorce. 

And then, Sunday comes. The day of his new husband’s arrival. Joe quickly makes up the spare room guiltily (he may have been putting it off), moves out all his art supplies and half finished works he’d been keeping in there into his studio, and cleans his house haphazardly. He’s not going to be able to hide his bad habits for long, he reasons, so there’s no point in making everything dust free and sparkling for the other man’s arrival. They’re going to be living together for a year, after all. He’s sure he’s going to have to put up with some bad habits as well.

And at 12 o’clock on the dot, there’s a quiet knock on his front door. For a second Joe considers just not answering it, hiding in his bedroom and pretending he’s not home until the person knocking gives up, but then he sighs. There’s no use in postponing this.

He strides up to his door and opens it with what he hopes is a friendly smile.

The man standing on his doorstep looks vastly different from the photo that Joe had been provided on the website. His hair is longer and messier, brushed behind his ears, both of which sparkle at the lobes with little silver earrings. The angle the photo had been taken at had hidden how broad his shoulders are, how slim his waist is, and the washed out colours had completely betrayed the pinkness of his lips, the bright sea-storm of his eyes. Instead of a morose little smile his mouth curves gently with a shy half grin, and gone is his stiff black clothing and clerical collar, replaced with a casual dark t-shirt and jeans. 

“Hello,” he says with a lilting Italian accent, voice soft. “It’s lovely to finally meet you. I’m Nicolò, but everyone calls me Nicky.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Yeah. Uh. I’m Joe. Come in.”

~~~

They sit at Joe’s kitchen table, two mugs of coffee steaming in front of them. Nicolò has his hands clasped on the table, and something about that makes Joe kind of annoyed. 

“Look,” Joe says suddenly, “uh, I’m sure that this whole situation is weird to you too—”

Nicolò— _Nicky,_ shifts, looking like he wants to say something, but Joe barrels onwards.

“—because there’s been some mistake, we definitely aren’t each other’s ideal choice in partner, but we only need to be roommates for a year, right, and then we can get our money back when we file for divorce. So it’s no big deal. I’ll stay outta your way if you want it, there’s a spare room for you down the hall—”

“...Divorce?” Nicky asks quietly, his eyes big and blue-grey. The knuckles of his clasped hands have whitened. 

Joe winces. “Uh, the Catholic Church is okay with divorce, right?” It’s gonna make it a lot harder if Nicky doesn’t believe in annulling a marriage. Joe probably should’ve researched more.

“...It’s allowed.”

Joe lets out a breath of relief. “Right. But you know, we don’t _have_ to tiptoe around. We’re probably gonna see a lot of each other so, uh, we could be friends?”

“Friends,” Nicky says slowly, and Joe’s starting to think maybe Nicky isn’t going to be a great conversationalist. 

“I mean, we don’t have to—”

“—No, no,” Nicky interrupts, and there’s something shadowed in his expression, but it quickly fades under a small smile. “I would like to be friends.”

Joe lets out another breath. “That’s awesome. Great. Friends. So, uh, I’ll show you to your room. Come on.” He gets up out of the chair, and before Nicky can grab his suitcase next to the door, Joe gets it for him. “It’s just down here.”

~~~

“I’ll let you settle in,” Joe says, smiling awkwardly in the doorway. “Did you want me to shut the door?”

“Yes, thank you,” Nicky says, proud when his voice doesn’t waver. 

“Uh, when you’re ready, come on out and I’ll give you the grand tour,” Joe offers, and then closes the door with a quiet click.

Nicky sinks down onto the double bed and looks around the room. It’s decently sized, bigger than his bedroom in his old rectory, with a window that looks out over the small but well maintained backyard. There’s a bookshelf, half filled with a few books that look like they’re college textbooks, and a set of drawers. Next to the bed is a nightstand, with a lamp. On the wall is a painting of a beautiful young woman, and if Nicky wasn’t feeling so shaky, he would’ve gotten up to inspect the masterful brushstrokes and lovely use of colour.

But instead he clasps his hands together on his knees and leans over them, hastily brushing away a tear with his knuckle as it leaks from under his eyelid. 

It had hurt, when Joe had said that Nicky hadn’t been what he’d wanted, but something inside Nicky had been expecting it as soon as he’d seen Joe’s profile picture on the website. He’d been immediately captivated by his warm dark eyes, his wild curls contained by a backwards cap, his thick beard and wide, friendly smile that reminded Nicky of midsummer sunshine. Someone as handsome and lovely as Joe, matched with him? Surely there had been a mistake. 

He inhales shakily, holding the breath in, before forcefully exhaling as slow as he can manage. He’d used the website as a last resort. He’d been terribly lonely, after he’d left the priesthood. His family wanted nothing to do with him, and neither did the church, or the few friends he’d made there. Nicky wasn’t particularly talkative, so making friends didn’t come easily to him, and since he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do making a living just yet, he didn’t even have work colleagues to rely on as company. Dating was something he wasn’t naturally good at and had no experience in, and as soon as men heard that he was an ex-Catholic priest, they immediately weren’t interested. Way too many issues to sort out there for just a quick fuck, one of his more memorable dates had said. He’d seen the advertisement for the website in the newspaper one day, and had looked it up, doubtful, but curious. And then he’d seen the glowing reviews and happy couples, and he’d—he’d just been so lonely. 

He’d signed up right away. Did the paperwork, paid the fee, filled out the questionnaire, said he was willing to move to meet his match (there was nothing keeping him anchored in Italy anymore), and uploaded the only photo he’d had of himself from the seminary. And then he’d waited. It had only taken a few days before he’d gotten an email saying that his match had been found, and he was now officially married. He’d been so happy. Someone who Nicky was perfect for, and someone who was perfect for Nicky. Someone who he could love, and be loved in return.

Of course it was too good to be true. It’s understandable that Joe took one look at him and knew that Nicky wasn’t for him. Nicky has never been easy to love. 

Sniffing, he brushes away another tear and sits up, staring at the cheery yellow ceiling. _Friends,_ Joe had said, smiling openly. Nicky should be glad for just that. He’s lucky that Joe could look past the mistake that had been made and welcome him into his home with open arms. Nicky hopes that when the year is up, they’ll still be friends. It would be nice, to have one.

Taking a deep breath, he dries his eyes with his sleeves, and forces himself to smile. There’s no point in wallowing. He’s happy, he really is, to have met Joe. _Friends,_ he thinks, and his smile turns more genuine. 

Yes, that sounds very nice indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting new chapters of what's been already posted to the kinkmeme as I go through and tidy some stuff up until I catch up. :)


	2. part two

“You painted all of these?” Nicky asks quietly, eyes roving over the multitude of canvases leant up against Joe’s home studio walls. Joe finds him exceptionally hard to read; mostly Nicky is straight faced, except for those small little half smiles that linger on his lips sometimes. 

Joe coughs into his fist. “Yeah. I’m an artist. You didn’t read it on my profile?”

Nicky looks at him for a split second before looking back at his paintings. “I did,” he says simply. “You are—very talented.” He steps forward, reaching out to one of Joe’s works that is sitting on an easel. His fingers however don’t touch the oil paint, and instead flutter over it, before dropping away. “This is beautiful.”

“It’s not finished yet,” Joe says. “Well, it’s  _ meant  _ to be, but the damn thing is fighting me tooth and nail. I just can’t get the shadows right—and the colours are all wrong, and the composition could be better—”

“I’m sure, when you finish it, it will be perfect,” Nicky says. “Just like everything else in here.”

Joe rubs the back of his head, both pleased and embarrassed at the easy sincerity in Nicky’s voice. “Hey, no need to butter me up. We’re already married.”

Nicky steps back from the easel, looking at Joe with his fathomless seafoam gaze. “Yes, we are,” he says softly, and then looks to his feet. Somehow, Joe feels like he’s said something wrong. He’s not quite sure what though, but before he can say something Nicky is once again talking. 

“I won’t be distracting you?” Nicky asks, looking back up to inspect some drawings pinned to the wall. His tone of voice is once again level, like the dip before had never happened. Maybe Joe had been mistaken. 

“Distracting me? Oh, uh, not unless you play dubstep at eardrum shattering levels at 2 in the morning.”

There’s that small upwards curl of Nicky’s lips. The beauty spot to the side of them, Joe finds, is a little distracting. “I will try not to.”

“Awesome. That’s all I ask. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

~~~

Joe is very, very talented, Nicky observes. He’d seen all the art hung on the walls in Joe’s house, but it wasn’t until Joe had showed him his home studio that it’d clicked. He’d known Joe was an artist from his profile, but he hadn’t looked him up online, wanting to get to know his husband organically. He hadn’t been sure what kind of artist, but now he can see Joe paints with oils, sketches with pencil and dabbles with charcoal. His renderings are breathtaking, and Nicky can see and almost feel the emotions Joe has laid into his art with every stroke of his brush or pencil. 

Nicky feels intensely guilty about invading Joe’s space now; Joe needs to concentrate, he doesn’t need a strange man hanging around his house and annoying him while he’s creating something as beautiful as his art. Nicky resolves to be as quiet and as helpful as he can, to make up for his presence. He’ll be as perfect a spouse— _ friend,  _ as he can be.

After Joe finishes his quick tour of his house, they both pause in the hallway. Nicky feels how painfully awkward the silence between them is, and internally winces. He wishes he was better at conversation, and Joe is obviously trying very hard, but Nicky is nervous, and tongue-tied. He doesn’t know what to say to such an amazing, talented and gorgeous man. He feels suddenly, infinitely inferior. How did the algorithm ever match them together? There must’ve been a very bad error.

Joe shifts on his feet, crossing his arms and then uncrossing them. “So, uh, make yourself at home. Me casa su casa. Feel free to watch tv and use my Netflix and Amazon Prime. Raid my fridge. Go hard.”

“Thank you very much,” Nicky says, inadequately.

“I’m just gonna—” Joe points back to his studio, “I’ve got a gallery showing coming up and I really gotta light a fire under my ass otherwise Andy is gonna light it for me. If you need anything, just knock.”

Nicky nods, disappointed that they aren’t going to spend any more time together immediately, but also a little relieved. It’s hard being around the other man; he’s just so attractive, with his thick black curls and bright, kind eyes, that Nicky has to fight the urge to stare constantly. He doesn’t think Joe would appreciate him ogling him, when he only wants them to be friends. Some time apart will be good for him to gather his wits.

He watches Joe retreat to his studio, and then looks around, already feeling a little lost. 

~~~

Joe tries hard not to feel too guilty about hiding away in his studio. He  _ does  _ have a gallery showing coming up, but not for a few good weeks. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, however, to get a head start. He just doesn’t really want to think about the stranger now living in his home. The very Catholic priest stranger. It’s just— _ so awkward. _

He sighs, pulling up his stool in front of his easel. He eyes the canvas critically, finds at least six things he needs to fix, and gets to work.

Hours later, he blinks out of his work-trance to find his painting in much better condition. He realises what had interrupted him; his stomach is growling. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Standing, he stretches out his back, quickly cleans his paint brushes, and ventures out into the hallway.

Something smells  _ amazing.  _ Joe follows his nose into the kitchen to find Nicky at the stove, stirring a pot.

“Hey,” Joe greets, curious.

Nicky looks over his shoulder. “I’m making dinner,” he explains, “if that’s not too forward..?”

“Oh, no, that’s cool. You didn’t have to.”

Nicky looks back at what he’s doing, hiding his face from Joe. “I wanted to,” the other man says. “It’s just simple pasta, nothing amazing. It won’t be longer than a few minutes, if you wanted to sit?”

Joe does, breathing in the scent of the simple pasta Nicky is cooking. Nothing amazing, his ass. It smells  _ fantastic.  _

And it  _ is  _ fantastic. Joe doesn’t know how Nicky makes spaghetti with tomato sauce and dried herbs taste like this, but it must be some kind of witchcraft. Do all Catholic priests cook like this? Because if so, Joe might just think about converting. 

“That was really good,” Joe says, after he’s eaten his entire plate probably embarrassingly quickly. “Thank you, really, Nicky. It’s been ages since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. I’m not much of a cook, ha. To be honest, I order take out most nights, or live off ramen. If you ever get the itch to cook again, please, go for it.”

Across from him, Nicky ducks his head, pleased. Joe momentarily gets caught up in the pink flush that blooms across Nicky’s cheeks, the way he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, that small, gentle half smile that graces his lips. And then he forces himself to look away, because checking out a Catholic priest? Kind of weird. Probably a sin, or something. 

“It was nothing,” Nicky murmurs.

Joe gets up to gather their dishes, but suddenly Nicky is up out of his seat and has everything stacked up before he can blink, heading to the sink.

“Hey, you cooked,” Joe says, “it’s only fair that I clean.”

Nicky only shakes his head, running the tap already. “It’s the least I can do, after you’ve welcomed me into your home.”

Joe could fight more, but he kind of really hates doing the dishes, and if Nicky says he wants to, he’s not going to try too hard to change his mind. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

~~~

And that is how the rest of the week goes. Joe squirrels himself away in his studio in the morning, working diligently throughout the day, and emerges at night. Nicky cooks him dinner, eats with him, and retreats back into his room politely, possibly to pray(? Joe doesn’t really know what a priest does at night for entertainment. He figures they pray). They don’t see each other much, even though they occupy the same space.

It’s just, Nicky is so  _ quiet.  _ Joe half wonders if he’s some kind of ninja-priest hybrid. During the day he never hears a peep from the other man, and sometimes he looks up from being engrossed in a piece of art and finds a plate of food and a glass of water sitting innocently next to him when he’s forgotten to eat lunch. How Nicky walks into his studio and leaves him a meal without Joe noticing is beyond him. (He knows he tends to hyperfixate when he really gets in the groove. It's just, usually, another person's presence is enough to break him out of it. Somehow, Nicky just doesn't clock his radar.)

But having Nicky being such a quiet presence has Joe a little on edge in his own home. It’s not like the man hovers at all, but he’s  _ there,  _ and even though he’s not scary or weird by any means, he’s just so  _ damn quiet. Too quiet.  _ It makes Joe tiptoe around, scared to make too much noise in his own damn home, lest he disturb the church-like silence. 

So by Saturday night, he’s itching to get out of the house. He lets Nicky know he won’t be needing dinner, gets a small, quiet nod in response, and flees out his front door. He hasn’t seen his friends at their local haunt in a little while—it’s time they all catch up. 

~~~

Even though Joe had said he didn’t need dinner tonight, Nicky still pulls out the ingredients to make dinner for two. If Joe comes back hungry, Nicky wants to make sure that there’s something in the fridge for him to eat. He fights the disappointment that they won’t be sharing a meal together, the bright spot of Nicky’s day, but it makes sense. Joe surely has friends to see and things to do; he can’t spend all his free time with Nicky. 

Humming, he finely dices onion and crushes garlic under the side of his knife. The house around him is quiet, and dark, and Nicky tries not to feel too lonely. Joe will be back at some point. The house just feels empty and colder without the other man’s presence.

It’s been nice, the past week. They haven’t spent much time together, but Nicky knows that Joe is busy, and that his art is far more important than Nicky, whose very presence in his home is a mistake. Nicky had hoped that they would know each other better by now, but he tells himself to be grateful for what he has. Joe’s lovely, and welcoming, and very generous in sharing his home, and Nicky shouldn’t expect anything more, really. You can’t rush friendship, he tells himself. You can’t just make someone else like you, no matter how much you long for it.

He slicks the pan with olive oil and adds the onions, chopping up more vegetables as they fry. He tries to ignore the doubt curling in his stomach, the thoughts in his head that quietly whisper  _ he doesn’t want to be your friend.  _ Joe had said that he’d wanted them to be friends, and Nicky believes him.  _ You wouldn’t blame him if he changed his mind though,  _ that voice whispers, and Nicky bites his lip. He wouldn’t blame Joe, not at all. Nicky understands that he isn’t the easiest to get along with. The thought hurts, but he accepts it. 

Onions fried, Nicky adds the garlic and then the vegetables. Really, he has no cause to complain. The time he and Joe spend together  _ is  _ nice; sharing dinners, Joe complimenting Nicky on his cooking, his kind words making Nicky’s stomach glow and curl happily like a cat in the sun. And he’s living here rent free; Joe refuses to take his money. Nicky tells himself he doesn’t need anything more. Just Joe’s presence is enough, he tells himself.  _ Don’t want more. Don’t be selfish. Be grateful for what you have, because it’s probably more than what you deserve.  _

(He’s not lonely. He’s  _ not.) _

~~~

Joe may have drunk a bit too much. He’s not usually a drinker, but he’d needed the alcohol after the week he’d had. Nile had cautioned him to slow down, and even Booker had been shooting him looks, but Andy had just clapped him on the back and plonked another beer in front of him. 

So as he walks up to his front door after emerging from his Uber, he fumbles with his keys, cursing as he drops them on his welcome mat. He straightens from scooping them up and slots them into the lock before belatedly remembering that his door isn’t locked—he has a house guest, now. 

When he walks into the hallway it’s dark, but there’s a dim light glowing from the doorway to his living room. He swings into his kitchen first to grab a bottle of water, and spies a post-it note on his fridge.  _ Dinner inside if you’re hungry,  _ it reads in messy cursive. And sure enough, when he opens the fridge door, there’s a Tupperware sitting on one of the shelves. Stir fry, it looks like. Joe’s not hungry, he’d eaten some food at the bar, but the gesture is thoughtful. “Thanks, Nicky,” he murmurs. 

He drains his bottle of water, dumps it in the trash, and then pokes his head around the doorframe to his living room. He immediately spots Nicky curled up on one of his armchairs, a book balanced precariously on his knees, his head tilted back. He breathes slowly and steadily—he’s asleep. 

For a second Joe just considers leaving the man there, but his good consciousness takes over. With the alcohol in his system it’s easy to ignore the apprehension he feels in the other man’s presence. Nicky’s asleep, anyway, he’s not gonna know. 

Carefully, as carefully as a drunk Joe can be, he slips Nicky’s book out from under his limp hands and sets it aside, glancing at the cover.  _ Anne of Green Gables.  _ Huh. He doesn’t own that book. He wonders where Nicky got it. 

Too inebriated to linger on the thought, he grabs a blanket off the back of his couch and gently lays it over Nicky’s sleeping form. He pauses as he pulls away—the soft light coming from the lamp in the corner illuminates Nicky’s face, casting loving shadows over his strong nose and deep set eyes, the gentle downturn of his lips. Nicky’s expression, so hard to read during the day, is almost childlike in its openness during sleep. He looks  _ sad.  _

Joe straightens, takes a step back, and sits down heavily on his couch. He suddenly, vividly, comes to the realisation that he has been a massive dick. 

He’d said he’d wanted to be friends, and here he is, avoiding Nicky like the plague. The man has been nothing but nice, and as Joe looks around his living room, has been doing all the housework while Joe has been locked up in his studio. Everything is spotless. His yard is tidy, the grass freshly mowed, and he may have heard Nicky vacuuming the other day. The kitchen had been spotless too, none of his customary dirty dishes piling in the sink, his pantry and fridge fully stocked up. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t been to the grocery store for a while now, so Nicky must’ve done the shopping. He’s pretty sure Nicky doesn’t own a car, and he hasn’t asked Joe to borrow his, so he must’ve walked, or taken the bus. The supermarket isn't close.

Joe runs a hand down his face and over his beard. They’ve been living for a week together, but he has almost no idea who Nicky is other than the information that was in his profile, or what he does to entertain himself during the day when Joe is busy. He has no idea about Nicky’s likes or dislikes, his hobbies, his aspirations in life. He has no idea if Nicky’s been feeling lonely, if he’s missing Italy, or his family and friends and church. He doesn’t know if Nicky likes it here, if he’s even settling in. Fuck, he feels like a grade a asshole. His mother would be so disappointed in him. He can basically see her face in his mind's eye right now, her finger wagging in the air as she scolds him.  _ Just because things are awkward, Yusuf, does not mean you have an excuse to ignore a guest! None of this is that poor boy’s fault, so stop treating him like it is! _

He gives himself a few moments of indulgent self flagellation, then stands back up. The room spins a little, and he goes very still, before his vision thankfully rights itself. He stares at Nicky for a second, feeling awfully guilty at that tiny frown on the other man’s face, and steps forward to pull the blanket closer around Nicky’s form. Nicky shifts as he does, murmuring something indistinct, and a lock of dark hair falls into his face, catching on his long lashes. 

Later, Joe will blame the alcohol as he brushes it behind Nicky’s pierced ear, his fingers lingering on Nicky’s sleep-warm skin. But for now he just takes a step back and staggers off to his bedroom, determined to make amends in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh joe you silly goose
> 
> One more part to clean up and post and then I'll be all caught up with what's already posted on the kinkmeme and can start posting new parts :D


	3. part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last part before i've caught up to what's posted on the kinkmeme :) next part will be something new!

The headache, Joe expects. The sunshine glaring right into his face, he does not. Grumbling, he lifts his head up from his pillow and sees that in his drunkenness he hadn’t closed his curtains last night.  _ Rookie move,  _ he tells himself, and gingerly rolls out of bed. He’s awake now; there’s no going back to sleep.

After a shower and brushing his teeth, Joe feels more like the human he’s meant to be. He rolls out into his kitchen in sweatpants and an old shirt, and pauses in the doorframe when he sees Nicky sitting at his kitchen table.

“Good morning,” Nicky greets, his lips gently curved in a small smile. He looks unfairly put together, and Joe just grumbles at him. “I made a pot of coffee,” the other man continues, seemingly not put out by Joe’s hungover morning grouchiness. “And if you’re hungry I can make an omelette, if you’d like.”

Joe heads for the counter where his coffee filter is sitting, pours himself a mug, gulps it down, fills another mug and this time only sips at it. He leans back against the counter and holds the mug to his chest, forcing himself to meet Nicky’s blue-grey eyes.  “Sorry, I’m not much of a morning person.”

Nicky’s grin widens just a little, but he hides it behind his coffee mug. 

Joe makes a face, sighs, and puts his coffee to the side. He straightens up from his lean, crosses his arms, and then uncrosses them forcefully. “I owe you another apology,” he starts, eyes dropping down to the floor, “I’ve kind of been a dick to you.”

Nicky makes a confused noise, but Joe keeps going. “No, I mean, I  _ have  _ been being a dick to you. I said that this didn’t have to be awkward and we could be friends and then I just—avoided you. And I’m really sorry.” He rubs his fingers against his temples.

Nicky’s quiet, and Joe finally gains the courage to look him in the face. Nicky looks—he looks confused. “You don’t need to apologize,” he finally says, “I know that you are busy with your art. I understand.”

Joe frowns. “Hey, man, no need to let me off the hook so easy. You’ve been cooking and cleaning, which, by the way, you have no obligation to do, and I’ve kind of been taking advantage of that.”

Nicky still looks like he doesn’t get the issue. “You haven’t been,” he says, “I wanted to.”

Joe kind of wants to shake him. Is this man for real? Does he really not harbour any ill will towards Joe for being an asshole and ignoring him this entire week? “Why? Why would you want to?”

Nicky is the one to drop his gaze now. He tucks his hair behind his ear, which is what Joe is starting to realise is his nervous gesture. “It’s the least I can do,” he says, “since you’re having to put up with me living here.”

Right. Okay. No. “Nicky. I’m not putting up with you. This entire situation is not your fault, it’s that damn algorithm’s and the fact we have to live together for a year before we can get our money back. You’re being the perfect house guest. You’re the one putting up with  _ me.” _

A small frown crosses Nicky’s face. “I’m not putting up with you at all. You’ve been nothing but nice to me.”

Either Nicky is playing an idiot, or he’s just that nice and isn’t offended that Joe has been a total dickwad. Had he really not minded that Joe had been ignoring him? “If you think that’s what someone being nice is, I would hate to know how your friends treat you,” Joe says without thinking.

And then Nicky’s ocean-spray eyes go wide for a second, and he drops his gaze down to his coffee, his lips downturned. He doesn’t say anything.

Joe drags a hand roughly over his face. This is not going well. Allah, give him strength to overcome his own dickishness. “Look. I just—I’m really sorry. I’ll understand if you want nothing to do with me. If you want, I’ll leave you alone. You don’t need to cook or clean or anything.”

Now Nicky looks up at him, his eyes wide with something else. “I want to,” he says again. “And I would like us to be friends. If you still want to be?” The tentatively hopeful tone in his voice makes something in Joe’s heart ache a little.

“Well, I probably don’t deserve it, but yes, friends would be great,” Joe says honestly. 

Nicky’s smile is bright and genuine and  _ lovely.  _ It lights his entire face up, the entire room, and Joe cannot help but smile widely back.

~~~

Joe insists on being the one to make breakfast, even though Nicky had said that he was more than willing to cook. He spends the entire time Joe is at the stove fiddling with his coffee cup, both a little perplexed and pleased with the conversation that they’d just had.

It is nice to know that Joe is still wanting to be friends with him. The apology, however, had been unexpected. Nicky sees nothing wrong with Joe’s behaviour, but if the man feels like he needs to apologise, then Nicky will accept the apology if it made Joe feel better. 

The omelettes end up overcooked, but Nicky eats his without complaint. It’s been a very long time since someone has cooked for him, and Nicky enjoys every bite, thinking that it’s the best meal he’s had in a while. Joe insists on doing the dishes as well, and even though Nicky protests, the man orders him to sit down and not move a finger.

“Hey, so, is there anything you’ve been wanting to do? Have you been out of the house much? I don’t really hear you around during the day,” Joe says as he stacks the clean dishes to the side of the sink.

Nicky blinks, fighting the urge to get up and dry the plates and pan. “I’ve taken a few walks,” he says, “the park down the road is lovely. There are ducklings in the lake.”

Joe huffs a laugh. He has a very nice laugh, warm, like his smile. Nicky’s stomach flips and he looks down at the dregs of his coffee.

“Yeah, the ducklings are cute. But, I mean, you came over from Italy, right? You don’t wanna see the sights, do some tourist stuff?”

Nicky thinks that would be nice, to see some of the country. But he doesn’t want to make Joe go out of his way to show him around. Instead, he asks, “is there a library near?”

Joe looks at him over his shoulder, expression surprised. Nicky hopes he hasn’t asked something weird.

“Yeah, there’s a library a ten minutes drive away.”

Nicky brightens at the prospect. He’d only been able to fit so many books in his suitcase and had given the rest away before he’d moved, and he’d already exhausted the supply over the past week. More books would be great.

“I haven’t been in a while, actually,” Joe muses as he finishes the last of the dishes. “I can tell you the way and you can borrow my car, but if you don’t mind I would like to tag along.”

“I would like that,” Nicky says, and Joe grins at him, which Nicky thinks is rather wonderful. 

~~~

The local library is modestly sized, but modern. Joe lingers around while Nicky sorts out a membership and gets given a library card, and then lets Nicky know he’ll be in the art section. Immediately, he spies a book on contemporary art he’s been meaning to find on one of the new release shelves, and becomes engrossed in turning the pages. Then he moves on, to the poetry section, spying Nicky in between the shelves, looking rather happy with his armful of books already. He looks cute, actually, and Joe has to distract himself with a poetry anthology before the thought goes too far. 

Half an hour later, he goes in search of the other man, wondering if Nicky’s done yet. He can’t find him anywhere, and Joe’s half wondering if Nicky has abandoned him, which, fair, until he walks past the children’s section and hears a familiar Italian lilt.

He rounds a bookshelf to find Nicky sitting in an armchair, surrounded by a horde of children. He has all of their attention as he reads from a book, holding it up to show them all the pictures with his left hand, his right arm holding a child securely on his lap. Joe spots a group of mothers to the side also looking rather engaged, but not with the story. 

_ Fuck me,  _ Joe thinks.  _ That is not fair. How can a priest be  _ this  _ attractive?  _ As he watches the little girl sitting in Nicky’s lap reaches up to tug at Nicky’s earring. Patiently, carefully, Nicky detaches her fingers from what must be a painful yank on his ear and taps her gently on the nose, smiling. Joe thinks he hears more than one wistful sigh from the mothers. He might let one out himself. He may have a weakness for guys who are good with kids. 

He leans against the bookshelf and watches. Nicky does different voices for the different animals in the book, and the children are delighted. When he’s finished, there’s a smattering of applause from the mothers, and Nicky ducks his head, a shy blush on his cheeks. He spots Joe and blinks, surprised, before carefully lowering the little girl in his lap to the floor. He waves goodbye to the mothers, who all lament him leaving and tell him he should come again, and says goodbye to the kids, who whine and tell him not to leave, before heading over to Joe, gathering his own books up from the stack beside his chair. A librarian takes his place, picking up another picture book, but the kids already look less interested.

“Hey, no need to leave on my account,” Joe says, but Nicky shakes his head.

“If I read another story I will lose my voice,” Nicky says, and he sounds kind of sad about it.

Together they head for the self checkout for their books. “You’re really good with kids,” Joe says as he finds his library card in his wallet. 

“I taught Sunday school at my church,” Nicky explains, “there was a lot of babysitting involved. But I didn’t mind. I love children.”

“Me too,” Joe says, “when I meet the right person I want at least three.”

“That would be a very busy household.”

Joe grins, finishing up scanning his books. Nicky’s only half done with his; he’s got a lot more than Joe. “I like chaos.”

“I would like children too,” Nicky says, sounding a little wistful. 

“You’d make a great dad.”

Nicky smiles softly at him. “Thank you. I think, so would you.”

~~~

Joe shouts Nicky lunch. He picks his favourite Mexican place and refuses to take Nicky’s money when the man offers.

“You’re already letting me stay without paying rent,” Nicky protests, frowning as Joe hands over cash.

“Yeah, but I already told you, I don’t need the money, and besides, you did all my housework for the entire week. You even dusted,” Joe says, picking up their table number and ushering Nicky over into one of the corner booths. “I never dust.”

Nicky could tell that Joe never dusted, but he doesn’t say that, because that would be mean. 

“Also, you bought the groceries, which I haven’t thanked you for yet. You really didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back, since you did the trip  _ and  _ cooked.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Nicky points out. “Shall we split it?” He concedes. He doesn’t think Joe is going to drop it. 

“Fine, we can split it, but I’m coming with you next time.”

Nicky hides a smile behind his glass of water. 

“Not to pry, or anything, but, uh, do you think you’re gonna get a job?” Joe asks. “Unless you’ve got money to cruise on. I have no idea how much money a priest makes.”

“I got a modest stipend from the church.” It wasn’t a lot, but it had been enough for Nicky to comfortably live on as a priest, and make some savings. However, now that he’s no longer with the church, his savings are dwindling. He has enough to live on for a few months, probably a lot more now that Joe isn’t letting him pay rent, but Nicky does want to get a job. He likes being busy. “I have enough savings to last for a while, but I think I would like a job anyway. I just don’t know what I want to do.” Nicky has spent the majority of his life devoted to the church, with little other thought to another career. 

“Well, I guess it doesn’t have to be something you're super serious about, right? You’re only going to be stuck here for a year before you go back.”

The reminder that Nicky’s time is limited with Joe stabs a tiny needle into his chest, but he pushes the heartache aside. “That’s true,” he murmurs, fiddling with his napkin. 

“Maybe you could find something to do at the Catholic church here?”

Nicky just shakes his head. He’s not sure he can step inside a church without crying at the moment. Leaving had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life, along with the realisation that he’d devoted himself to something only so he could hide who he really was behind it. He’s still ashamed of his motivations, of being such a coward, of lying to his family and friends and to himself all these years. Just thinking of entering another church brings up intense feelings of shame and guilt. It will be a while, he thinks, before he can step into another church.

Thankfully, Joe doesn’t press. Their drinks come, and their food soon after. Their meal finished, Joe leans back in his chair, hand on his stomach. Nicky is similarly very full; Joe had ordered a lot of food, and he’d probably eaten a bit too much, but it had been very tasty.

“Is there anything else you wanna do today?” Joe asks.

Nicky shakes his head. He’s already taken up so much of Joe’s time. 

Joe frowns. “You’re sure? You don’t wanna have a look around town? I can show you some of my favourite spots.”

“You do not have to get back to your art?” Nicky asks, tentatively. 

“Nah,” Joe says, “I’ve spent enough time in my studio the past week. Come on, let’s go, I’ll show you all the weird statues we’ve got around here.”

~~~

Now that Joe has decided to stop being an asshole, he takes up his fair share of chores. He also tries to cook more, but Nicky ends up preparing most of their meals, just because of that fact he seems to enjoy it, and his food is vastly better than Joe’s. Joe, however, never lets him wash a single dish if he can help it. They share most meals together now, not just dinner, and at night they watch movies or play board games, and Nicky turns out to be a very good but rather aggressive chess player. Joe has only managed to win one out of the five games they have played so far, but to be honest, he’s not playing with all his attention. He finds the dip between Nicky’s eyebrows as he frowns and the way he gnaws at his plump bottom lip, staring down at the board as he contemplates his next move, unfairly distracting. 

Joe no longer closes the door to his studio while he’s in there during the day, and extends an invitation for Nicky to come sit inside if he wants. Usually he hates people watching him paint and draw, but Nicky’s presence is quiet and calm, and he never disturbs Joe at all. Mostly he watches serenely, or curls up in the corner with a book, keeping Joe company. Joe actually finds he enjoys Nicky being with him—he never knew that he’d been kind of lonely in his own home.

And then, one morning, Joe gets a package in the mail. He sets it on the kitchen counter and opens the box with a knife, staring down at the mountains of heavily scented red rose petals. There’s a white card placed on top, written in gold foil cursive script. It reads simply:  _ Two perfect rings, one perfect marriage.  _

Joe makes a face and digs his hand into the seriously ridiculous amount of petals, searching around. Nicky comes into the kitchen just as he lifts out a small dark blue velvet pouch, giving a small cry of triumph.

“Did you get a package?” Nicky asks curiously, coming up behind him.

“Our rings,” Joe says. He opens the velvet bag and upends it over his palm. Two rings tumble out, both simple polished metal and matching in design, a single groove bisecting each ring lengthwise. The only difference is that one is gold, and the other silver. 

“Oh,” Nicky says quietly. 

“We probably should send them back,” Joe says, ignoring the fact that somehow the website had picked out the perfect wedding rings for him. The only thing he’d entered into the website was his ring size, and not any preference on what ring he’d wanted. Joe would be more impressed if they hadn’t screwed up sending him a gorgeous Catholic priest for a husband. Sighing, he tips the rings back into the bag.

“I can do it,” Nicky offers, and Joe hands the velvet pouch over. 

“Thanks. I was just gonna head out for a run.”

~~~

Nicky sits on his bed as he hears the front door close. He stares at the velvet pouch sitting innocuously in his hands, and then slowly tips out the rings.

They’re cool and heavy in his palm. Reverently he traces both rings with a finger, feeling the metals warm with his body heat. They’re perfect.

Biting his lip, he carefully slides the silver ring onto his ring finger. It fits snugly, not too tight, not too loose. His exact size. He holds his hand up to the morning sun coming through the window and stares at the glint of metal, chest tight. For a moment he lets himself imagine Joe greeting him at his front door with a smile and a kiss. Their fingers intertwining, Joe’s body close to his, their matching rings reflecting the light. He lets himself imagine, but only for a moment, before the guilt sets in.  _ Friends,  _ he tells himself. That is more than enough.

He takes the ring off and slides it and it’s pair back into the velvet bag, placing it inside his bedside table drawer. Joe will never know if he doesn’t send them back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we're all caught up :)


	4. part four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so i'm trying something, hover over the Italian Nicky thinks with your mouse and _hopefully_ it will translate to English. _Hopefully._ Not sure what will happen if you're on mobile haha. Maybe try tap on it? Creator style has to be enabled though. :)

Nicky is just scrolling through job ads on his phone while he waits for his chocolate chip cookies to be done in the oven when Joe comes back from his run. 

When Joe comes to stand in the kitchen doorway, he’s sweaty and shirtless, running shorts slung low on his hips, cheeks flushed with exertion and dark curls damp over his forehead. Nicky almost drops his phone, fingers suddenly gone nerveless. 

“Are you baking?” Joe asks. “That smells awesome.”

Nicky is not sure if he can wrap his mind around language right at the moment. His eyes track a droplet of sweat as it makes its way down between Joe’s collarbones and into his chest hair, and he forces himself to look away, very suddenly feeling the heat coming off the oven. He just nods jerkily, managing to choke out, “chocolate chip cookies.”

“You, my friend, are a star,” Joe groans. “I haven’t had homemade baking in _years.”_ His golden brown skin glistens in the light and Nicky thinks that maybe he might faint. Joe is a lot to look at usually, but now—now Nicky cannot describe how beautiful he is. And then Joe comes nearer, aiming for the fridge, and Nicky can only stare at him like a deer in headlights as he downs a bottle of water next to where Nicky is leaning against the counter. Some of the liquid trickles into his thick beard and Nicky is sure his heart is about to give out. He can’t feel his fingers and toes. He thinks he might be seconds from having a medical emergency. _ _Dio dammi la forza,_ _he prays internally. 

Finished with the bottle of water, Joe wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m just gonna go wash off all this sweat and then I am going to fight you for every last cookie,” he warns, straight white teeth flashing in a mischievous grin.

“Okay,” Nicky says weakly. 

Joe leaves the kitchen, leaving a vivid imprint of the broad, sweaty expanse of his back in Nicky’s vision. Nicky has to brace himself on the counter to gather himself, and then heads to the sink to splash cold water on his hot face. He hopes Joe hadn’t noticed his speechlessness or blatant staring, and he thinks for once his general awkwardness and terrible conversational skills have saved him. 

The timer goes off and Nicky is so frazzled he almost tries to take the tray out of the oven without any gloves on. Thankfully, he remembers before he burns himself. That would be rather awkward to explain to Joe.

When Joe emerges again, Nicky is relieved to see that he’s put a shirt on. The threadbare, tight white top stained with paint might not be much better, but at least it covers up the vast expanse of brown skin that had made Nicky’s mouth go dry and his knees weak. 

Joe heads right for the cookies, but Nicky heads him off. “They have to cool, first,” he says, apologetically.

Joe pouts. “Meanie,” he accuses, “you just want to keep them for yourself.”

Nicky does not stare at Joe’s lips. “Yes,” he says dryly, “I am going to eat all twenty four cookies and make myself sick just to deprive you.” Then he drops his gaze, shocked at himself. 

But Joe just laughs, sending warm shockwaves down Nicky’s spine and loosening the nervous tightness in his limbs. “I knew you couldn’t be as nice as I thought you were,” he teases, “nobody can be _that_ nice.”

Nicky flushes a little at the compliment. Joe thinks he’s nice? He’s not quite sure what to say to that. He’s not used to compliments. 

But then Joe saves him from having to think of something to say by snaking his arm lightning quick around Nicky’s side and snatching a cookie right off the tray. He runs off, cackling, juggling the still too hot cookie between his hands like a hot potato, while Nicky stares after him, shellshocked from the brush of Joe’s arm against his, from the scent of his sandalwood body wash lingering in Nicky’s nose. 

~~~

The weather is nice enough that Joe declares that they’re having a barbeque for dinner. He might not be the world’s best cook, but he can grill some damn good steaks.

He fires up the barbeque on the small patio he has in his backyard and looks up as Nicky comes out with a plate of caprese salad, setting it down on the small wooden table Joe owns. 

“Couldn’t just let us eat meat?” Joe asks, grinning.

Nicky smiles his familiar little smile at him. “No.”

Joe turns back to his steaks, shaking his head. He thinks he’s eaten more vegetables in the past two weeks than he has in the past year. He thinks his mother would like Nicky, since he seems determined to get Joe to eat his five plus a day. She’d hated his last boyfriend, who had been worse than him, but then he stops that train of thought right there. Nicky is not a prospective partner, even if it’s weird to say that because they’re already married. _To be divorced,_ he thinks, and ignores the twinge of sadness he feels when he thinks about Nicky leaving in a year. It’s been nice, having a housemate, especially one as lovely as Nicky. Considerate, quiet, tidy Nicky, who cooks and bakes and leaves books in odd places around his house.

Nicky moves back and forth between the kitchen and the outdoor table, setting it and bringing out their drinks while Joe grills. They’d decided to eat outside tonight as well, and Joe is happy with the decision. The light breeze feels nice tousling his curls, and the sun is pleasantly warm on his skin as he turns the steaks.

“How do you like your steak?” He asks, looking over his shoulder.

Nicky looks up from his book. “Medium rare, if that’s okay.”

“Samesies,” Joe says, eyes lingering on Nicky curled up in one of the chairs. The sun, just starting to go down, suits him. It brings out the copper highlights in his dark brown hair, the precious gemstone quality of his eyes, the healthy pink flush on his cheeks. Nicky quirks his lips up at him, and then hides his pretty blue-grey gaze behind thick lashes as he looks down and resumes his reading. 

Joe goes back to the steaks, heart beating a little faster. Okay, so he can admit, Nicky is wildly attractive. In a lot of ways, not just physically. Maybe the algorithm hadn’t fucked up as much as he’d thought. Or maybe it had even worse—to put someone like Nicky in front of Joe, _marry_ them, and then have it so Nicky is out of Joe’s reach completely. _Suck it up, Joe,_ he tells himself, _he’s not interested in you, he's straight, he wants a_ wife. _A nice, lovely, heterosexual relationship that his religion allows. Anyway, you just think he’s an amazing person, and_ very _good to look at. It's just some unavoidable attraction to a really nice guy. It’s not like you’re in love with him. Now_ that _would be sad._

He checks the doneness of the steaks, finds that they’re perfect, and moves them off the grill onto two plates. Nicky puts down his book and thanks Joe when he puts his plate down in front of him, and Joe collapses into his own chair, looking forward to the food. He hasn’t bothered to cook a steak in a long while.

They eat in comfortable silence, until Joe says, “you know, you can use my laptop in my studio if you want to video call your family.”

He looks up from his food just in time to see Nicky’s shoulders stiffen. “Thank you,” he says, looking down at his plate, “but I don’t need to.”

Joe frowns a little. “It’s no problem, really. You can go in my studio when I’m not there and use it whenever. There’s no password on it.” He makes a mental note to delete his search history, just in case.

Nicky smiles hesitantly, pushing a piece of tomato around on his plate with his fork. “I don’t have anyone to call,” he says, quietly.

Joe’s frown deepens and he puts his fork down. Has he put his foot in it again? “I’m sorry.”

Nicky looks up hastily. “Oh, no, nothing like that. They’re still alive. It’s just—they wouldn’t accept a call from me. We aren’t on speaking terms.” His little smile twists into something pained, and Joe’s chest tightens as Nicky drops his gaze down again.

 _Oh,_ Joe thinks, sadly. He can’t imagine not being on speaking terms with his family. He calls them at least once a week to get an update on what’s happening back in Tunisia, not just because his mother would skin him alive if he didn’t, but because he loves them a lot, and misses them just as much. His little sister has a one year old as well, and Joe is greedy to see him grow up. “I’m sorry,” Joe says, again, and knows that it’s inadequate. 

“Don’t be,” Nicky says, “I dug my own grave.” His tone is low with resignation. He takes another bite of his steak, but doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it as much as he was before. 

Joe desperately wants to wipe the grief off Nicky’s face, and hates that he brought Nicky’s family up. He doesn’t want to cause Nicky pain. But there’s nothing he can do about this pain. “I can’t imagine that you could do anything worthy of being shunned by your family,” he says truthfully. Nicky is far too kind and sweet for Joe to imagine him doing _anything_ remotely bad. He decides, quite quickly, that Nicky’s family must be one big bunch of Italian assholes. 

Nicky chews and swallows, and his lips quirk minutely upwards, but his smile is still much too sad. “Thanks,” he says, “but you think too much of me.”

“No way,” Joe says maybe a little too vehemently, since Nicky looks up in surprise. “You’re a great guy, Nicky, and if your family can’t see that, then that’s on them. If they can’t see what they’ve got then they screwed up royally, not you. Unless, I guess, you murdered someone or something.” Which Joe couldn’t see happening in a million years. He’d seen Nicky carefully pick up a spider in a piece of paper the other day and put it outside instead of just squishing it. _That_ was the kind of person Nicky was.

“I didn’t murder someone, no,” Nicky says. He looks a little perplexed.

“Phew,” Joe breathes out, “dodged that bullet then. It would’ve been awkward being married to a murderer.”

“A little,” Nicky concedes, and he seems glad that Joe has veered off the topic of his family. He goes back to his food, and Joe thinks that maybe he’s stewing over something; there’s thoughtfulness in his eyes as he chews on a mouthful of fresh mozzarella, something a little sad, and forlorn.

And then Joe feels a small little ball of suspicion form in his stomach. “How about friends then? There’s gotta be someone missing you back in Italy.”

Nicky seems to collapse in on himself, his broad shoulders drawing in. His mouth curves down and his bright eyes dull, and Joe wonders how on earth he ever thought Nicky was expressionless. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, if you just take the effort to _look._

“I didn’t make a lot of friends in the church,” Nicky says softly, staring down at his plate. 

~~~

That might be a bit of an understatement. Nicky had made almost _no_ friends, neither at the seminary or at the church he’d been placed at after his ordination. There had been some acquaintances, of course, but Nicky had remained distant; at first subconsciously, because in the back of his mind he’d always known that he hadn’t belonged, had been a charlatan; and then in the end purposefully, because he’d been terrified. Terrified of someone finding out, terrified of himself, terrified that his faith was empty and his life of devotion meant nothing. The few times he’d gained the courage to try and befriend someone had worked out sometimes, but they’d never been close friends, and when Nicky had left the church they hadn’t reached out to him. Nicky had tried, once, and never heard a reply. He’d accepted then, that he’d never would.

As for childhood friends, well, Nicky had always been the quiet, strange child in the corner that came from a very strict religious family. Acquaintances again, and surface level friendships that he thinks were only made with him out of pity. Nobody had kept in touch. 

And then in the almost year he’d after he’d left the priesthood and religion behind him, his family had disowned him, and he’d spiraled into what now he thinks was probably a bout of depression, and he hadn’t had the capacity to make friends. And then when he’d dragged himself out of it, gathered enough courage and ignored all the self doubt he could, he put himself out in the world, and it was just one disaster after the other. Things just weren’t meant to work out for Nicky. But maybe this friendship would. He hopes it does with all of himself, because Joe is so perfect. To hold a part of Joe close to his heart, even if it is only friendship, would be a thing of wonder. 

“Well then you must’ve been surrounded by idiots,” Joe declares, bringing Nicky out of his thoughts. Nicky stares at him. That’s the third absurd thing Joe has said to him today, the first being that Nicky was a good person, and the second that it was Nicky’s family that didn’t deserve him, as if Nicky hadn’t lied to them for most of his life. 

Joe looks incensed, his warm brown eyes sparking and gleaming magnificently in the sun. “Why would anybody not want to be your friend? You’re sweet, funny, a great listener, you _like_ to clean, you cook up a storm, you can _bake,_ you have great taste in art—if I say so myself, and you look like _that,”_ he says, waving his hands in Nicky’s general direction. 

Nicky can’t process so many compliments at once. He just kind of sits there, flabbergasted, his fork loose in his hand, and manages to say, “look like what?”

Joe looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Nicky,” he says slowly, “you’re gorgeous. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Nicky looks in the mirror all the time. He sees what he always sees. Plain face, big nose, deep set eyes, mousy hair. Not ugly, but not particularly pleasing either; he doesn’t really care that much about what he looks like, to be honest. The only thing he really likes about his appearance are his earrings. A little bit of vanity, maybe, but he’d wanted something to mark finally accepting who he was. The new person he was trying to be.

“I look like me,” Nicky says, not quite understanding what Joe’s getting at. 

“Yeah, and you’re _hot_ ,” Joe says, and Nicky is just entirely too flummoxed to reply to that. No one has ever called him ‘ _hot’_ before. _‘Hot’_ and Nicky never went in the same sentence, unless of course you were talking about him overheating in his black seminarian attire during the height of the Italian summer. 

“You must’ve had so many sexually frustrated wives and husbands who attended your church follow after you like they were dying of dehydration and you were a tall glass of cool, glorious water,” Joe continues.

Now it’s Nicky’s turn to look at Joe like he’s grown another head. 

“Not even one horny teenager?” Joe asks, incredulous.

“Never,” Nicky squeaks. 

“Hmmm, I think you’re lying,” Joe says, but he’s more teasing than accusatory. 

“I would never,” Nicky insists.

“Uh huh,” Joe says, like he knows Nicky is lying even though he definitely is _not._ “Sure.”

Nicky narrows his eyes at him. “What about you then? You must have a series of devoted followers.”

Joe throws his head back and laughs. He’s so gorgeous in the orange and golds of the slowly setting sun that Nicky’s heart skips a beat, one that Nicky gladly loses. He would willingly give every single following heartbeat just to see Joe laugh so brightly and freely, and because of _him._ “No, definitely no series of devoted followers like I’m some crazy-eyed cult leader,” Joe chuckles, “but I get around.” He waggles his eyebrows extravagantly.

Nicky goes bright red and severely regrets his question. And then he looks down at his plate and the red juice of his steak bleeding across the porcelain, because of course Joe has had experience, _look_ at him, who could resist him? Nicky, once more, feels infinitely inferior. It’s embarrassing, to be 30 and a virgin. Again, he feels stupid thinking that Joe could’ve wanted him when he’d seen Joe’s profile on that website those few weeks ago. 

“Sorry,” Joe says, and when Nicky looks up again he’s wincing, looking a little guilty. “TMI?”

Nicky shakes his head. 

Joe sighs. “You just don’t want me to feel guilty, don’t you?”

Nicky bites his lower lip, and shrugs. 

“You know, Nicky, you are far too good of a person,” Joe says, sounding much too serious. He’s got his chin in his hand as he stares thoughtfully at Nicky. 

Nicky shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the compliment. Joe will inevitably realise some day that he is not. Desperate to change the subject, he asks a question that has been quietly simmering away in the back of his mind all these weeks. “Why did you sign up for Soulmatch?” Joe could probably get anyone he wanted. Why did he need a website and an algorithm to find him a partner?

Joe looks over Nicky’s shoulder, tapping his cheek absently with his forefinger. “I got tired of empty flings,” he says. “I guess I got lonely. All my friends are basically married. Being the only single one of the lot gets particularly tiring after a while.”

Nicky’s heart bleeds at the downturn of Joe’s lips. Joe is meant for wide, happy smiles, warm hugs, golden sunshine and picnics under endless summer blue skies with the people he loves. “I’m sorry you ended up with me,” he says. He’s never felt so cruel in his life.

“Don’t be,” Joe says. “I’m not.”

Nicky looks up, eyes wide, and Joe’s gentle, beautiful smile at him breaks his heart.

“Why did you sign up?” Joe asks, like it isn’t obvious.

“I was lonely too,” Nicky replies softly.

“Yeah,” Joe says, and there is no pity in his gaze, only understanding. 

They eat the rest of their meal together in companionable silence as the sun sinks reluctantly, quietly, behind the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(okay lets be real here at least half the people who attended Nicky’s church services were in various states of in lust/love with him but nobody approached because he was their priest and way too attractive and distant and pure to lay a finger on but Nicky never noticed all the yearning looks because he has a terrible case of Terminal Obliviousness and was too busy wallowing in Catholic Guilt™)_.
> 
> Updates are probably going to slow down. I actually have to _work_. I know, I'm not happy about it either lol.


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